


Stranger in a Strange Land

by In_Pieces



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Does this even count? lmao, Gen, Into The Spardaverse Week, Into the Spardaverse, Kid Nero, Mage V, Spardaverse, Spardaverse Week, Tags May Change, Witcher Vergil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-21 01:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Pieces/pseuds/In_Pieces
Summary: A strange portal launches Dante into an unknown world, trapping him there and forcing him to pretend to be a witcher.All hope seems lost until someone mistakes him for Vergil.
Relationships: Dante & Nero & V & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante & Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

Dante knew he shouldn’t have done that.

Verge and the kid were having a not-so-pleasant conversation in Nero’s living room, and he figured they needed some time alone to sort things out. Fight it out. Let the kid scream. Let Verge try to explain everything about his life. Dante was well aware that he should be there, too –and no, he was _not_ delaying the inevitable. There would be a time and a place for the three of them to sit down, talk it out, and have a heart-to-heart, but today was _not_ going to be that day.

He walked aimlessly through the forest, breathing in the earthy scents of wet soil and tall grass. He knew Nero had been working hard to keep the island safe, but he expected to see, at least, a couple of lesser demons prowling around, eating hares, and clawing a couple of trees, roused by his presence alone. It was all too still and quiet. He couldn’t hear anything. Not the birds, nor the gust of wind that gently rustled the leaves and vaguely carried the scent of the sea.

Something was going to happen while he was all alone in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t it?

He could hear something appearing behind him, whooshing and humming a low tune that resonated on his ears and felt like it was faintly rattling in his skull.

...Was that a portal?

It didn’t look like a Hellgate or Yamato’s doing. Those were usually cold, and felt like small needles were prickling his skin when he got closer to them. A purple haze always shifted inside them, not quite threatening, not quite dark. But this one? It resembled a black hole with yellow flames twisting towards its void core. He could feel the warmth emanating from it, not quite unpleasant, but not exactly something that gave him much comfort.

He took a couple of tentative steps towards it, trying to see if there was anything looming in the shadows. The portal began to suck in a couple of small sticks, rocks and dried leaves by his feet, and any sane person would've taken that a warning to step away and get the hell out of there.

Dante walked even closer to the portal, frowning as he did so. The warm air engulfed him whole, and the darkness around him blinded him and made his body tense until he was violently thrown on the ground. The side of his face smacked the soil with a thump, and he felt something on his cheek crack with the pressure. He stood up with a grunt, bringing a gloved hand to his chest where he could feel a couple of broken ribs unpleasantly twisting in place as he stared at the vast clearing that now surrounded him.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that he was no longer in Fortuna. The cloudy skies of the island were suddenly clear, and the air lacked its distinct smell of the sea. The trees weren't as dense and dull over here, their tops almost impossibly full and vibrant. A couple of arrows and rusty armors were scatted around him, no doubt as remnants of a fight that, judging by the guts dragged across the land, hadn't ended that well for both parties involved. The silver-colored pieces of armor lacked any sort of demonic essence, smelling like nothing but the sweet notes of blood and the tangy scent of human sweat.

Above it all and beyond the green, he could see a city, one that looked far more medieval than the posh, Renaissance-style architecture he was used to observing in Fortuna. White smoke kept steadily flowing into the sky from a couple of chimneys, and he could barely catch a glimpse of the paved roads that, surprisingly, were not being used by any sort of four-wheeled vehicle. He could see horses moving through the throng of people, their silky hair blowing in the wind behind them as their rider's shinny armor glistened under the sun. He could see long dresses and wide skirts, loose pants, knights, and flags of red and black. It looked like something straight out of those fantasy movies Nero made him watch not so long ago -it'd been hard to pretend he was awake for the whole thing, but the kid looked happy as long as Dante opened his eyes and nodded every once in a while. 

Maybe he’d gone back in time. Or maybe he'd, somehow, encountered one of those ‘glitches’ that Nico liked to talk about when she had a little too much to drink- was this was she was refering to? Or was it something else entirely that he couldn't remember? It ultimately didn’t matter; he needed answers, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting them by standing still in the middle of nowhere.

If he had any sort of luck still left, he would be back before Nero and Verge even noticed he was gone.

* * *

Luck wasn’t on Dante’s side, and he couldn’t remember the last time it ever was.

He was on his fourth pint of ale that night, knowing fully well that no amount of alcohol could make him feel anything more than a gentle buzz and a small ache on the back of his head. A couple of months had passed since he’d arrived with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a couple of cumpled-up dollars on his pockets –bills that, by the way, were absolutely worthless. He had no coin, no roof over his head, and not a damn clue about what to do, only a demonic sword on his back that caught the eye of more than one old man who begged him to kill the monsters that were eating their cows and chickens.

He'd grown tired of saying he was a Devil Hunter; the townsfolk didn't seem to grasp the concept of such a thing, forcing him to change the script. Monster Slayer seemed like a better title, but that somehow prompted people to call him a witcher. He adopted the title, always pretending that he knew what he was talking about.

Where was he from? Kaer Morhen, of course –he heard that place mentioned once or twice, and he’d gotten nothing more than acknowledging nods and a couple of ‘ahs’ for it.

His medallion? Lost in battle, but he could manage just fine without it.

His strange sword? It was a relic. Very rare. Very powerful. witcher gear. They wouldn’t get it. The appearance of Devil Sword Dante was a little too much for them folks, and he'd struggled to get it to morph into something that would be easier to strap on his back.

His second sword? At the Blacksmith, he would pick it up later –he actually had to buy one, lest his little theatrics could burn in flames.

His eyes? Shit. His eyes. It took him a couple of days to figure out that witchers had amber, cat-like eyes, and he, for once, was thankful that he didn’t sleep through Trish’s explanation of how to use a small bit of demonic power to make a realistic disguise.

He heard that Mages and Sorceresses could open portals, but every single one he’d encountered had turned down his offer, and his chances of getting out of there seemed slimmer by the day. He’d tried triggering in the middle of the forest, away from civilization, hoping that would create a sort of distress signal to let Verge know that he was out there, but it all proved to be useless, and even counterproductive: he saw a contract a couple of days after that incident where a wealthy man sought a witcher to hunt down the strange horned and winged creature that had appeared in the forest. Turns out he'd triggered a little too close to the secret spot that old fart used to shag his mistress, and he was, understandably, upset about it spooking her – Dante took the paper down as soon as he saw it and burned it to a crisp.

He could picture Nero pacing around, trying to find him. Kid would be pissed at first, then worried, and then both pissed and worried that he’d left just like that. Verge would be dismissive, then furious, and then worried that he’d disappeared out of thin air, but Dante _was_ trying. He’d been trying for days, weeks, _months_ to go back to them, hoping to one day get more information about that powerful Sorceresses who could, _maybe_ , solve all his problems –or give him even more problems. It was hard to tell.

“Vergil!” A gruff voice spoke, drowning away the drunken chatter around him and the joyful screams coming from the couple who was playing Gwent at the adjacent table. “Fancy seeing you here without that brat of yours.”

Dante looked up, slowly lowering the mug full of amber liquid that was dangerously close to his lips. He locked eyes with the chubby man clad in noble wear, noticing that his beady eyes immediately widened at the sight of the hunter’s scruffy beard.

“My apologies, I mistook you for someone else.” The man said it far too quickly, embarrassment coloring his features as he took a small bow in front of him before he turned to walk away. Dante was quick on his feet, minding very little about the fact that his legs managed to drag the heavy wooden bench he was sitting at with a loud screech. He placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, preventing him from walking any further as the tavern's occupants turned to stare at them.

“Tell me more about Vergil.”

Dante sipped his fifth ale that night, listening carefully to the man's tales. Simond took a sip of his own ale, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the several marks and scratches that adorned the old wooden surface of the table.

“I didn’t know Vergil had a brother.”

“Doubt he wants to talk about me.” Dante let out a low sigh, mulling over the information. There was a Vergil here, a witcher who sounded very much like his older brother: white hair, nasal voice, chiseled face, kind of an ass. “What can you tell me about the kid?”

“He’s his son, naturally.”

“Witchers are sterile.”

Simond muttered an awkward ‘oh’ and filled the heavy silence that had fallen between them with a loud sip of his drink. “Perhaps he won him at a game of cards, then? I’m not entirely certain, but Nico seems fond of him.”

“Nero.”

“Ah, yes, Nero! That’s his name.”

Dante leaned in closer, breathing in the smell of malt coming from Simond's pores as the chubby man let out an airy chuckle. “Know where I can find them?”

He knew the answer before Simond even opened his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I have no idea what I'm doing. This is the first time I dabble in AUs and events like this, lol.
> 
> I reckon this is going to be about 5 or 6 chapters long, maybe a lil more if I get too inspired. I'll try my best to upload 'em all this week!
> 
> I'm basing all my Witcher-related knowledge on the Netflix show and The Witcher 3 -I haven't finished the game just yet, but my man has and I'm making him read this to make sure it all makes sense 😂
> 
> Thank you for reading! ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

Dante rode his horse for days, stopping at every single habitable place to ask for a white-haired witcher who traveled with a child. Some said he was the only one they’d seen lately; some others gave him meaningless city names miles away only for him to realize that they’d mistaken Vergil for another witcher _again_ \- he’d seen a painting of the other guy, and the only thing they could possibly have in common was the color of their hair.

Still, he wasn’t giving up that easily. He _had_ to find them, even if he had to travel to the ends of the world to do so.

Was he exaggerating? Yes, but no.

Was he being unreasonable? Maybe.

Was he aware that the people he sought couldn’t be his Vergil and his Nero? Absolutely.

His aloof brother was out there, somewhere, coping with his humanity and dealing with the mess he’d made, and his hot-headed nephew wasn’t a little boy, but a man who’d turned 25 merely a week before Dante decided to plunge himself into the unknown.

They weren’t them. They couldn’t be them. But he _needed_ to see their faces once again, listen to their voices, and hold on to that little sliver of hope if he didn't want to lose his sanity.

Many details about his past life felt like a hazy blur, as if they had been nothing but strange, feverish dreams. His memories were slowly slipping away, no longer at his complete disposal on those cold, lonely nights when the heaviness truly began to sink in. He remembered his home, but couldn’t remember the city. He remembered a couple of names, but couldn’t associate them to a face. Being there, feigning he was someone else, and adopting a nomad lifestyle for coin was eating away his sanity at a painfully slow rate. Yes, he could trigger, his body was free of any man-made or monster scars, his bones and muscles could heal themselves in a matter of minutes, but his mind, cloudy as it was, was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he had actually trained at Kaer Morhen, and maybe those things were the result of some odd mutation that he hadn't heard about yet.

He was truly losing his mind.

The universe, Destiny, or whatever it was didn't want him there. He got that loud and clear.

Dante jumped off his horse with a grunt, his armor clinking slightly with every step he took as he approached the only tavern he’d seen that day. His muscles ached with exhaustion, his stomach howled with hunger, and his blood-covered hair indicated that he’d pushed himself far too much and desperately needed a hot bath and a bed to sleep in, if only for a couple of hours –he would find none of that there, but he could always try to exchange his services for a warm corner to spend the night.

His hands were covered with thick monster blood and the slippery remnants of one of the oils he’d used to coat his Devil Sword. Raw, demonic power certainly worked against his foes, but a mixture of oils and a tad of powdered-up silver were enough to drastically lower the duration of his fights and give him a little breathing room.

He stepped to his right when a drunken man stumbled his way out of the tavern, the smile on his inebriated face quickly turning into a snarl as noticed the faux witcher and, quite incoherently, called Dante a freak and some other colorful things that he couldn’t quite understand due to the way he was slurring the words.

The hunter only snorted; everyone called him a freak until they needed him.

Something white darted out of the woods, catching his eye. A boy now stood in the middle of the dirt road, looking back at something with a grin on his face. His blue shirt hung loosely on his body, no doubt a couple of sizes too big for his frame. His boots were covered in grime and mud, very much like a traveler’s would. His silver hair made a stark contrast against his youthful features, and his blue eyes sparkled with glee as a small, mischievous chuckle left his lips.

“Nero?”

The boy’s eyes immediately darted in his direction, allowing Dante to see that there was no way he was older than 6 or 8- he'd never been good at guessing ages, but the kid looked small. His bright eyes suddenly hardened as he stared at the white-haired stranger that had called out his name, and the smile on his lips disappeared completely before he ran back towards the forest as fast as he could.

Shit.

Maybe he should’ve taken the horse –it would’ve been far quicker to catch up with the kid that way, but he wasn’t exactly thinking straight. Dante ran through the thick woods, avoiding low branches and scattered rocks and debris as the kid took sharp turns to get him off his tail.

“Nero, wait!”

“Leave me alone!” Nero glanced back over his shoulder, letting out a small yelp when he nearly collided with a low branch. Kid had an awful lot of stamina for someone his age –or maybe it was the fear of having someone thrice his size doing the most to catch him.

Dante sighed as he stared at the overwhelming amount of green around him. He’d lost sight of the kid after a particular tricky swerve and had no idea where he’d gone now. No leaves or branches had been snapped or ruffled in the vicinity, and it was impossible to try to discern his footprints in that jumbled-up mess of horse hooves and adult-sized boots that adorned the floor.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.” Dante called out, hoping to talk some sense into him. Maybe Nero was still there, ducking under a fallen tree, or maybe he was gone, but he had to take his chances. “I just wanna talk.”

“Then speak.”

How strange it was that he couldn’t feel him approach like he always did. His footsteps were as light as ever, his voice just like he remembered it: dark, threatening, as sharp as the blade that he’d just unsheathed from his back.

He’d been waiting for this moment for months. Dreamt about it, even. He raised his hands in a surrendering pose as he turned to face the voice, feeling the anticipation flourishing in his chest before he did as much as look at the hairs on Vergil’s head.

Verge looked younger, far younger than he did. His hair was a little longer, and he'd tied it back loosely in a half ponytail to keep it away from his face. Dante didn’t like the look of him clad in armor, distantly recalling the memories of a certain Black Knight. He could see a couple of scars running from his neck down to his chest, some newer, some older. His face was hardened by the years and the countless battles, and that sentiment was also present in those unfamiliar amber eyes that glared at him with renewed intensity. Dante’s own amber eyes traveled towards the medallion on his brother’s chest, and then further down to the familiar boy behind his legs whose glare equaled Vergil’s own.

“Thought I’d never find you, Verge.”

Vergil sheathed his sword, and Dante felt his shoulders relax at sudden change of heart before his brother drew his silver sword and, in a fluid movement, slashed one of his palms open.

“Ouch!” Dante hissed at the pain, not really caring about the blood that seeped from the small wound and trickled down his hand. He knew something like this was bound happen, but he foolishly believed that things wouldn't go the wrong way for once in his life. Vergil’s eyes remained momentarily fixated on the wound, looking for any signs of the mangled flesh that he expected to see where the silver met skin, yet he saw and smelt nothing more than human blood.

“You shouldn’t be alive.”

“Can’t say you’re the first one to tell me that.”

Vergil found no humor in Dante's retort, but he, at least, stopped pointing at him with his blade. His twin appeared calm outwardly, characteristically so, but Dante could tell he was still on edge, trying to pierce it all together.

He was human, Vergil could tell as much. His skin hadn’t reacted to the silver, and that ruled out his initial suspicion of a Doppler or sorts, even if he knew how ridiculous it was to even think that. But it was impossible for Dante to be there, in the flesh. Was it an illusion? An unamusing prank courtesy of that pesky Mage?

No, it couldn’t be.

He spoke like Dante, looked like Dante, albeit an older version of him. Perhaps he was hallucinating due to the exhaustion, even if he knew he hadn’t pushed his body that far yet.

“Dad?” Nero poked his head from behind Vergil, still frowning as he noticed the contempt etched on the older man's face. "Who’s that?"

“My brother.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

Vergil kept his gaze fixated on the fire, watching the flames erratic yet steady dance pattern and the specks of gold and orange that left the logs on the base of the bonfire in a crackling snap, disintegrating in the air. He shifted carefully, trying not to disturb the sleeping child who was using one of his thighs as a pillow, even if Vergil doubted Nero was lying comfortably there. He could hear his son’s soft snores over the crackling of the wood, feel his chest rising and falling softly with each deep breath.

The witcher looked up, watching his ‘brother’ stare pensively at his son, his eyes reflecting the red of the fire and some sort of unknown regret.

If Dante had only known, if he’d only been to Fortuna any sooner to check out his father’s groupies, then maybe, just maybe, he would’ve met the kid when he'd been just as small as this Nero was, or maybe even younger. There was no way he could’ve known, not when Verge himself didn’t know he had a kid in the first place, but seeing Nero there, laughing and playing without the burden that came from being abandoned and neglected, made him wish he had the opportunity to give his Nero a better life than the one he had endured.

“He’s yours where I’m from, too.” Dante said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. “Biologically.”

Vergil said nothing, merely casting a glance at Nero, noticing the way his cheeks were starting to redden due to the heat.

The child’s hair was far more silver than white, his eyes a deeper blue than his own had once been, but they had the same temper, the same boldness, and they were, undoubtedly, similar in more ways than Vergil cared to explain.

The witcher couldn’t remember the name of the boy’s father, only that he was a blacksmith from a faraway land who had nothing on him when Vergil stopped a group of bandits from clubbing him to death. The man had no coin on him, and couldn’t remember having anything inherently valuable back home, not even enough materials to forge something half-decent for his savior; it was only logical that he'd invoked the Law of Surprise.

When Vergil escorted him back home, they found nothing but the man’s mistress, bleeding to death while a newborn child as pale as snow cried his lungs out on the floor. The blacksmith hadn't seen her in months and was unaware that she'd been pregnant with his child.

Vergil had never been one to believe in that invisible force called Destiny, there was no such thing as fate, but, perhaps, the child was bound to him in the grand scheme of things. He couldn’t deny that now.

The night wasn’t particularly cold, but Dante could feel a chill down his back as the wind blew behind him. The moon shone brightly in the cloudless sky, the sound of crickets soothing his mind. “You said I shouldn’t be alive, right?” Dante asked, earning nothing but a stare from Vergil that signaled he was listening. The witcher hadn’t said much, but even his Vergil preferred the sound of silence. “What happened to your brother?”

“He died decades ago.”

Died. Was killed. It didn’t make much of a difference now.

They’d both been young and cocky, armed with family heirlooms and newly-forged steel swords as they traveled down unfamiliar paths. The witchers had been unprepared and disgracefully unskilled to take down a fiend, their mangled bodies barely keeping up with the monster’s speed and brute strength.

A whoosh coming from his right made Vergil lose his footing and stumble to the left as the familiar force of Aard pushed him to the side. He remembered telling Dante to stop messing around, the words coming out of his mouth like venom. He’d been frustrated, exhausted, and could feel his blade losing sharpness with every heavy slash. He couldn’t bear with Dante’s childish antics, not at the time.

The monster attacked the space where Vergil should’ve been and, in one swift movement, focused on its next target. The fiend’s claws went straight through the armor on Dante’s chest, tearing metal and skin without reservations, ripping his organs apart. 

Dante had seen that coming.

Time had seemed to slow down as Vergil stared at his brother’s limp body sprawled on the floor. He remembered tightening his grip on the Yamato, his legs moving as fast as he could muster to get the creature’s attention and give his brother enough time to crawl away.

If only they’d been that lucky.

He'd heard Dante’s throat bubbling with blood as he stared up at the monster, his lungs giving out its last airy breaths before the creature delivered the finishing blow. He could still hear the echo of snapping bones, the wet splat of skin and soft organs melting into the ground in a puddle of red.

There’d been no goodbyes. No last words. No pitiful cries or tearful looks. His brother had spared him from that, too.

Dante nodded, noticing the way Vergil tensed up at the memory before he tossed another piece of wood into the fire. The flames flickered at the new addition before they quickly began to lick its way up from under the log, faintly illuminating both of their faces.

The hunter didn’t dare to press it on any further.

And with that, the conversation was over for the night.

* * *

Dante heard Nero yawn to his right, and diverted his attention from the endless dirt roads to look at the kid. He was sitting right behind Verge with his right cheek squished on his father’s back as he stared at Dante, his hair bobbing slightly with every step their horse took. Dante smiled, and the kid returned the gesture with a lazy one of his own before he sighed and tugged at the fabric poking from under Vergil’s armor.

“Are we there yet?”

“You’ve been here before.” The witcher replied, looking over his shoulder to see the sour expression on Nero’s face. Visiting the mage always made him restless. “Tell me where we are.”

Nero straightened and looked around him, watching intently at the vast amount of trees around them, the dirt roads, the broken remnants of a brick building beside them, and the town looming in the distance. “I dunno…Velen?”

“Be more specific.”

Nero frowned, tilting his head so he could look past Vergil’s back. He squinted his eyes when he saw a wooden sign on the side of the road, muttering the words burned on it before he let out a small ‘ah!’. “We’re here!” He momentarily turned towards Dante, unable to control his excitement and hoping that the older man also shared it before he tugged at Vergil’s shirt again. “Go faster!”

Vergil, surprisingly, obliged.

The hybrid followed them to a hut at the city’s outskirts. A small garden full of plants and budding flowers was beside it, fenced with wood and twine to avoid trespassers. Nero jumped off the horse, gripping the saddle with as much strength as he could muster before he dropped down with a small thump, the action nearly breaking off his balance. Kid didn’t care and ran towards the door as soon as he was able to regain his footing, swinging it open and excitingly greeting whoever was inside.

A small cat scurried out after the commotion, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw Vergil. Her black fur began to puff out, yellow eyes adopting a murderous glow as she hissed at the witcher, an almost painful growl echoing in her throat. Vergil deliberately went around the pet, but the cat refused to calm down, her eyes following the witcher’s every move.

Verge said they would see a mage today –Dante’d seen countless and none were willing to help him, but if Verge thought this guy could, then he was willing to give him a shot. The inside of the hut was fairly humble: it only had a couple of worn-out wooden bookshelves, filled to the brim with old tomes. Makeshift tables were scattered in the cramped space, up against the walls, and a small one that acted as a desk near one of the windows had a couple of vials scattered on its surface as well as an empty bottle of something akin to wine. And there, partially covered by a wall, Dante could see what he believed were the mage’s quarters, for he could see the corner of a bed in there, covered by a purple blanket and, in front of it, a smaller, child-sized bed where a wooden sword resided on top of a pillow.

“I found Dad’s brother! I didn’t know who he was, so I ran and told Dad and then Dad almost stabbed him!” Nero exclaimed excitedly from inside the room, his voice partially muffled by the wall.

“Where was your father when that happened?” The sultry voice that uttered the question belonged to someone Dante was sure he would never see again. V stepped out of the room with Nero in tow as the kid tried to explain, in a rather convoluted way, that they were playing.

The mage was all clad in black, his body lacking their characteristic dark markings, replaced by smooth, porcelain skin. He looked healthier, stronger than his brother’s crumbling humanity. V’s eyes traveled from Vergil to Dante, and a small, pensive hum left his throat before he turned to address Nero. “Shadow ran away again. Why don’t you look for her?”

Nero bubbled with excitement at the mission, wasting no time to run past them and into the garden as he shouted the cat’s name. Vergil’s eyes followed Nero’s form, watching intently as he ran from one spot to another on the open space in front of the house.

“You must be the brother.” V stated, taking a silver chalice that was lying in on a table and filling it up half-way with a red liquid that came from a green bottle. “I must admit I can see the resemblance.“

He wordlessly offered Dante the chalice and, well, he was feeling a little thirsty. He thanked the mage as he took a sip of what he now realized was wine. Sweet, fruity, the type that would get you drunk before you even noticed.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Vergil glowered. “I have already done that. You’re wasting time.”

“One can never be certain when it comes to you.” Came V’s reply and, just like he’d done with Dante, he offered Vergil a silver chalice. There was a moment of tension before the witcher snatched it from his hand and gave it a long sip. Not long after, the empty chalice was placed on the table with a thump and, only then, he could see V relax, if only a tad.

“Very well,” The mage continued. “Tell me why you are here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember I said I was going to try to upload everything last week? Yeah, that didn't work out. I had a couple of incredibly frustrating days and I just couldn't do it. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience! And thank you for reading! ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

Dante could feel Vergil’s gaze fixated on him as he played with Nero outside.

The devil hunter had underestimated the kid, for his size was no impediment for him to swing his small wooden sword with force at Dante, who was currently using a tree branch he found lying around as a makeshift weapon. He could see the intent on the kid’s face, the rising frustration when Dante blocked another of his blows until he saw an opening. The defeat etched on his face turned into childish determination as he rammed the tip of his sword on Dante’s chest, cheering loudly when he felt it slip in further as Dante shifted so it could slide between his chest and arm to keep the illusion. The hunter made a grand show, staggering back before he sat on the floor, holding Nero’s sword in place as he pretended to be far too wounded to fight back, forfeiting on the spot. The kid laughed and took the toy away from him, and Dante laughed too, enjoying those split seconds of joy amidst the chaos.

Vergil’s face flickered with annoyance through the window, and Dante saw him turn back to say something to V before he stormed outside. His posture was incredibly stiff, concealing the anger that his furrowed brow gave away as he called out Nero’s name without even glancing back at them.

“We can play later, okay?” Nero didn’t even wait for Dante’s answer. The sword was momentarily forgotten, left to its own devices on the ground beside Dante as he ran towards his father, swatting away the hand that tried to help him up. He agreed to take it only when his small jumps and childish strength weren't enough to scoop him up, huffing as he sat behind Vergil, holding onto the fabric poking under his armor.

Dante dusted himself off, picking up the kid’s sword as he walked towards V’s hut. His little playtime with Nero went beyond wanting to have a good time with the younger version of his nephew. One look was all it took for him to know that V had some _pressing_ matters to discuss with Vergil –all of them about Dante, no doubt. He gave in without protest, riling Nero up and taking him outside just so those two could have some time alone without his strange prescience looming over them.

“So, any news on how to drag my ass back home?” Dante questioned as he entered the hut, his nose adjusting again to the potent herbal scent that, to him, smelt like perfume gone stale. Strong. Almost peppery at times. Like he’d somehow swallowed a bunch of raw plants and their bitterness lingered on the back of his nose and throat. He laid Nero’s sword down on the table, right beside his own sword, and sat down heavily on the flimsy wooden chair beside it, fingers drumming along the table’s smooth surface. He could hear a rustle on the other side of the wall, in V’s room, and his quiet steps approaching before he came out with an old tome in hand. He, like Vergil did at times, was lost in the pages, the hunter’s presence nothing but another intruding bug on the wall until he snapped it shut.

“Pick up the cat.”

“Don’t think that’s gonna help.” There was a trace of humor in Dante’s tone as he lazily got up, his armor shifting and clanking as he approached the black ball of fur perched on top of a wooden chest. She was grooming herself, her sandpaper tongue going over and over the same spot near the tip of her tail. This wasn’t the strangest thing V had asked him to do. He scooped Shadow up in his arms, cradling her like a baby. Yellow eyes looked up at him and, after a couple of seconds, she began to purr.

V only let out a pensive hum as the cat squirmed on Dante’s arms, forcing him to gently lay her down on the same spot she’d been before, where she calmly continued her grooming session. Dante _could_ use magic, some sort of strange, foreign magic neither he nor Vergil had ever seen before. Vergil’s medallion didn’t hum in Dante’s presence. Shadow couldn’t sense it, either. But V had seen his eyes shift seamlessly from amber to blue, seen his sword appear out of thin air, morphed into something nearly grotesque. He’d seen his Rebellion –no, he called it Dante, which was outright _ridiculous_ \- surrounded by something akin to scales that only let a few inches of steel visible, the four claw-like decorations, and the red, shinning jewel adorning its handle. It was a weapon that not even the most knowledgeable blacksmiths could forge. Something otherworldly. 

“You shouldn’t be here. That is as much as we know.” V concluded, feeling a throbbing headache begin to form on the back of his head. He’d tried to come up with a logical solution of it all, yet nothing made sense. He didn’t understand Dante’s inherent power, the magic inside him, so different yet somehow similar to the one coursing through his veins. “A portal would be useless, incapable of crossing dimensions, no matter who summoned it.”

Dante snorted and sat down again, feeling drained. V had debunked his portal plan as soon as he explained how they worked exactly. They could take him from point A to point B or to a random location, but all within the confines of this dimension.

“… You got more of that wine you gave me yesterday?”

V motioned to a cupboard beside him as a silent invitation for Dante to help himself. Dante grabbed the closest bottle he found, swirling the dark liquid as he took it back to the table. It has half-full, the cork sticking out just enough for him to pull it out with his hands and take a long swig straight from the bottle.

V’s frown almost equaled Vergil’s. He wondered if anyone had told them that before.

“Did Vergil ever tell you how his brother died?” Dante started, and V’s emerald eyes snapped to look at him. The mage only nodded, and Dante continued, but not before pausing to take another sip of wine as if it was mere water. “Killed by a fiend, right? Up north. They were taking a shortcut through the forest.”

Now, _that_ was curious. It'd taken Vergil _years_ to recount that day, and it had only been because he’d entrusted him with his brother’s silver sword that was, currently, hidden in his room along with a bloodstained medallion. “I assume you didn’t hear that from Vergil.”

Dante shook his head and paused to stare at the bottle that, at that rate, would be empty in just two more sips. “Think his brother’s memories are starting to mix with my own. Can’t remember much about life back home, but I remember things about him and Vergil that weren’t there before. “ He sighed, the frustration of the last couple of months becoming far too overbearing on his head. He was aware that he was just venting to what used to be his brother’s humanity, but the stress was almost oppressing. He had to get out. If there was a way in, then there _had_ to be a way out. He didn’t want to forget. Didn’t want to leave his family behind. Didn’t want to poke around the memories of a dead version of himself. He frowned, slumping back on the chair. “Bet Vergil would be out of this place in a second if he’d been sucked in. He’d just…open another portal and come back to tell us how much Fortuna sucks.”

After a couple of seconds, Dante let out a very airy ‘huh’ and, just like that, his expression flickered into something akin to determination.

* * *

It’d been a couple of hours since Vergil and Nero had departed. Dante had managed to convince V to show him the Rebellion, seeing how the Yamato was currently strapped on Vergil’s back, and he could either be back in minutes or in days. V, reluctantly, agreed. Perhaps he should have never mentioned he had the sword in the first place.

Vergil wouldn’t be happy about Dante touching one of the few mementos he had of his brother –he’d always been sentimental to a certain degree, no matter how much he stated otherwise-, but the hunter had been adamant that this _could_ work, and told him to give him a chance to do it before Vergil came back –even _he_ knew how senseless his half-explanations were.

Dante studied the silver blade, feeling its weight on his hand, seeing it glisten in the sun, the runes inscribed on it glowing almost red. If it was anything like his Rebellion, then maybe he could… could what?

He gently shook his head as he steadied his grip on the sword, V standing not too far from him, waiting.

If Destiny didn’t want him there, then this was the perfect time to prove it. He plunged the blade deep into his chest with a pained grunt, blood sprouting out of the wound in a sea of crimson that dripped down his shirt and pooled on the hardwood floor.

Now V knew why he'd taken his chest plate off. 

“You fool!”

Dante grunted as he plunged the sword even deeper, and V could swear he saw a glimpse of silver showing on his back as the mage strode towards him, determined to put an end to that madness. Only the madness ended itself as Dante straightened, the blade pocking out of his chest as if the wound had been nothing but a scratch.

V could feel it, hear it, even, as Dante pulled it out of his chest. That invisible hum, how the air seemed to pulsate around them now. Dante’s own sword had dispelled the illusion the hunter had cast on it, giving way to its true, scaly form on the table as the sword on his chest burned with a red glow.

Dante didn’t know how, or _why_ his stupid plan had worked. It’d only seemed logical to stab himself with the Rebellion, suck up the pain, and see if it did something. He honestly hadn’t expected it to work, let alone see his Devil Sword react to it, but he wasn’t going to complain when it could very well be his ticket out of there.

He turned towards V, grinning, as if that smile could explain the implications what he’d done.

“Think I’m gonna need more help, V.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued patience! And thank you for reading! ❤️
> 
> By the way, I have a [Tumblr](https://wordborne.tumblr.com/) now! Feel free to send me a message or an ask over there.


	5. Chapter 5

Vergil had always been difficult to read, but V had already gotten used to the witcher’s silent brooding and quiet struggles –he had to at some point, they’d known each other for _decades_. The mage had served as Vergil’s voice of reason, offering valuable insight into certain things that Vergil either refused to see or plainly didn’t care about, such as why he should _not_ meddle with Emperor Mundus’ business when he knew the man loathed him, or why he should be wary of Arkham.

But, of course, the white-haired man had a _wonderful_ track record of ignoring him.

Just like he was doing right now.

Dante’s plan was barbaric. Madness. One of the most foolish things V had heard in _years_.

And he couldn’t understand why Vergil had agreed to take part in it.

Had he actually listened to it? To the implications of it all? The witcher was the only one who had _something_ to lose in that scenario. Dante believed this was the only way he could return to his world, but V refused to see it. There had to be another way, one that didn’t involve spilling any more blood, but Vergil had already made up his mind.

Vergil’s eyes were darkened, and his pale face was riddled with pulsating purple veins as a result of the high level of toxicity that coursed through his veins. V had only seen him like that once before, amidst a battle, which could only signal that he expected this to go awry.

And so did V.

Dante had asked if there was anything that could amplify V’s powers- he couldn’t understand why that could be of importance, and Dante had simply told the mage to 'trust him’-; Nero had been tasked with 'keeping guard' on his megascope inside that small, hidden room under the hut. It was a menial and useless task, but they didn't want the child to witness what would transpire.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Dante was holding the Yamato, the runes on it glowing a pale blue. If there was a link between the Rebellion and the Dante, then maybe, just maybe, the same could be true for both versions of the Yamato.

Vergil was supposed to be the one doing this, not Dante, but what the witched had said made sense, really. Dante'd mentioned how protective Yamato was of his brother back in his world and how it refused to let him use it to its full potential, and thus the idea came to life that Dante should be the one using the blade to add insult to injury. It was ironic, in a way; Vergil had always been the one doing the stabbing, but there, in that strange land, the roles had been reversed.

“Make haste, Dante.”

The hunter grimaced. Those familiar words definitely left a foul taste in his mouth. He took one good look at the Yamato, noticing how foreign it felt in his grasp before he looked at Vergil. It was almost eerie to see him like that, the images of his own corrupted brother flourishing on his mind. The witcher said he could take it, but could he, really? He could feel V’s eyes boring on his back, and he didn’t need to look at the mage to know he had a disappointed frown plastered on his face.

“Sorry, I know this is gonna hurt.” Dante adjusted his grip on Yamato’s hilt as he looked at Vergil straight in those strange, amber eyes before he plunged the sword deep into his chest, careful not to hit any major organs. The blade slid with relative ease, and he felt the way Vergil’s body dealt with the assault, twitching as a pained groan left his lips.

Dante swallowed thickly as he took a step back, pulling out the sword as he did so. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest with that he could only describe as fear. Fear that he’d truly hurt Vergil. Fear that he wouldn’t come back from it as easily as his brother would.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Vergil hissed through the pain, standing a little taller. He’d dealt with worse. Dante was careful, he could give him that, but no decoction in the world could minimize the pain, if only make the wound far less severe than it should’ve been. The witcher glanced at V, who merely shook his head at what he‘d called ‘a senseless move’.

The air felt heavy around them, mixed with the stench of blood, but, other than that, everything remained the same. Yamato still glowed pale, unchanged, lacking that strange sort of buzz that Dante had experienced with his swords, and the realization that he’d failed heavily dawned on him .

It was all over. He’d lost.

Dante felt all traces of hope leave his mind, making him feel strangely hollow and empty. He heard Nero’s voice coming from inside the hut, telling V that he was bored of staring at nothing and ignoring the mage’s attempts to make him stay inside. Soon after, Nero’s small figure ran towards his father, worry etched into his features as tears began to stream down his face when he noticed the bloody blade that was still in Dante’s hand.

Maybe what he’d witnessed the day before had been a damn stroke of luck. Maybe he’d just passed on some of his demonic power into the Rebellion, making it flare up like that. Maybe he was meant to be stuck in there and play the role of the long lost brother that was taken away from Vergil.

Then he heard it. A familiar low hum that sounded almost like static. He felt the cold air on his back and those strange, ice cold needles pricking his skin as the Yamato began to shine in a blinding shade of blue.

-

Things were already tense between Nero and Vergil before Dante’s disappearance, and his absence only made them worse.

They did everything they could to try to locate him. Nero’d called a thousand people, been to a hundred places, and scouted the forest over and over again, seeing nothing but Dante’s faded footprints on the soil in the middle of fucking nowhere. He couldn’t be dead. Nero refused to even think about that. 

Vergil had taken a trip to hell and, once again, refused to let Nero go with him. The hunter had stopped trying to contact his father about a week ago, the stress of it all far too overbearing on his mind. It would be best if they stayed as far away from each other for the sake of their feeble relationship, at least for the time being. 

Nero felt Vergil’s presence before he even knocked the door. Heavy, almost suffocating. It was far too late to try to bicker, and Nero almost hesitated when he finally heard him knock.

He opened the door with a frown, his jaw tightening at the thought of seeing his old man so soon after their last falling out –it hadn't been pretty, and they’d both said things they regretted-, but he was taken back when he saw the way the Yamato was burning in his father's hand.

“Dante is sending a signal.”

“What? Where is he?” All traces of anger left Nero’s face as he stepped aside to let Vergil in. He could feel his arm tingling as he stared at the sword's strange blue glow and, for once in months, felt a soothing sliver of hope.

“I’m not entirely certain.” Vergil started, and Nero didn’t fail to notice the exhaustion in his voice. “Yamato claims he used it to attack me.”

“But he’s _not_ here.”

“Precisely.” Vergil added, “That fool is not in our world, and neither is he in hell.”

Nero nodded slowly, taking it all in. Was Vergil trying to say that there were alternate universes and his dumbass uncle somehow managed to travel to one? He would’ve called it bullshit, if only things weren’t already complicated in his own damn world. “So, what now?’

Two carefully deliberated cuts appeared in the air in front of Vergil, glowing as bright as the Yamato. The seams of time and space contracted, letting them see the murky haze that waited within the portal. Nero shivered with the cold and, without thinking twice about it, followed his father into the depths.

Nothing would’ve prepared him for the scene that unfolded in front of him.

The first person he saw that Dante, clad in some sort of medieval armor, holding a bloodstained blade that glowed with the same intensity as his father’s sword. His hair was longer, shabbier, and he looked like he hadn’t showered in ages. His uncle managed to grin, but even then, Nero couldn’t bring himself to do the same.

He saw a younger version of his father there too, battle-scarred and tired, clutching his chest as blood seeped from a wound Nero couldn’t quite see. His unfamiliar amber eyes assessed them both, and Nero could swear he saw the other man frown when they locked eyes.

A small child was holding onto the man’s legs, mouth slightly agape as he stared at the newcomers. The boy was a younger version of himself, and Nero thought about how damn surreal and eerie it was to look at him. The little one’s eyes were all red –he’d been crying, without a doubt-, but his expression softened when he stared back at the devil hunter, blinking away the tears. Kid was probably thinking about the same thing, too.

As if things weren’t crazy enough, Nero saw V standing away from the small crowd. His pale skin lacked any type of tattoos, and Nero didn’t even have the time to think about it all when his father spoke up.

“We must leave.” Vergil exchanged a curt nod with his counterpart, a silent gesture of gratitude that he knew the other man would understand far too well before he disappeared back into the portal.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on Dante.” Nero said, offering his younger self a small smile before he turned to his uncle. “Come on; time to go home before this thing closes on us.”

“Just gimme a second, kid.” All he wanted was to haul ass and follow Vergil through the portal, but he owed them, at least, some words of gratitude. Dante offered his brother the glowing sword, and the witcher took it carefully, sheathing it on his back. The devil hunter then kneeled and rustled little Nero’s hair, earning a weak giggle in response. “Take care of your old man for me, will ya?”

He addressed Vergil next, unable to see past what the witcher wanted him to see –which wasn’t much, to be honest. Dante placed one of his hands on his shoulder, knowing damn well that hugging him would be overstepping his boundaries. “Thank you, Verge. Wouldn’t have done it without you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. “

Dante snorted, feeling a smile making its way to his lips that, surprisingly, the witcher returned with a smirk.

“V?” Dante called out, noticing that the mage preferred to stay by the sidelines, trying not to get too involved in the situation. “Vergil can open portals, that’s why I needed your telescope.”

“Megascope, Dante.” The mage corrected. “And that explains nothing.”

“It’s a long story; maybe I’ll tell you next time.” He offered V a gracious smile, one that was met with an acknowledging nod.

He turned towards his Nero and, with a smile, said: “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Dante had thought that going back home would be far less of a shock than it was. He was still, at times, overwhelmed with the amount of commodities he had in his world –running water, telephones, cars, and the list could go on and on. It felt almost surreal and far too good to be true.

He sometimes still reached for the second sword on his back that was no longer there, and felt bare without the armor he’d been wearing for months. But the memories of his time in Velen were fading slowly, leaving gaping holes in their wake. He could barely remember how the air in V’s hut smelt like, how piercing Vergil’s gaze was, how Nero’s joyous laughter used to bring peace to his mind.

It felt good to be back. To fight with Vergil until the crack of dawn. To see the kid rolling his eyes when he told him yet another stupid joke. 

He leaned back and propped his feet up on the desk, watching the sleek steel sword that he’d perched on one of the walls as a token of that one time he got sucked into a portal and spent nearly half a year living another life –Nero and Verge refused to let him live that down, and he honestly didn’t think they ever would.

Had he been a fool? Of course.

But did he regret it?

… No. Not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally complete! (a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶k̶ ̶t̶w̶o̶ ̶m̶o̶n̶t̶h̶s̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶,̶ ̶l̶m̶a̶o̶).
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you had fun reading it, too!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience, for the support, and for giving this self-indulgent fic a chance! ❤️❤️❤️


End file.
